


He's making a list, and checking it twice

by eye_of_a_cat



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Alternative career possibilities, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eye_of_a_cat/pseuds/eye_of_a_cat
Summary: Festive joys. Of a sort.





	He's making a list, and checking it twice

**Author's Note:**

> Early fic, originally posted on Livejournal in 2004.
> 
> My LJ notes from the time say "I bear no responsibility for what lies beneath the cut, except to say that I'm under a lot of pressure and it was very late at night and, well, it's nearly Christmas."

There is nothing unusual about this Christmas. Last year's tinsel wilts in dusty loops beneath the artificial lights, and cartoon snowmen peel from the walls. There is spray-paint snow, and rows of crepe-paper angels, and a garish mural of a reindeer somehow managing to look bored. A looped collection of forgotten songs and forgettable singers keeps its own tinny vigil in the background.  
  
In the queue of children, a boy is sulking. You can tell this by the arms folded into a knot and the over-loud sighs directed at his mother, who is not listening; this is the kind of boy that has already turned sulking into an art. It's difficult to pull off scornful in a Disney T-shirt and and jeans that he still needs to grow into, but he's managing quite well, directing glares full of pity and venom at the boy and girl in front of him. Questions beginning with "Why can't you be more like -" have clearly been asked.  
  
The children ahead of him notice none of this. They are happy, smiling, patient. If the first boy is condemned to the role of Innkeeper 2 in every school nativity play, trusted with one line and one line only, these are Mary and Joseph. When the queue moves forward again, the girl carefully avoids scuffing her patent leather shoes on the step before saying hello.  
  
Beneath his satisfyingly fake beard, far whiter and fluffier than the real variety could ever hope to be, Father Christmas smiles. He is surrounded by presents, spilling around his feet in a glory of ribbon and bright wrapping-paper. His voice, when he speaks, has a genuine American accent, placing him firmly in the loosely-defined realm of Hollywood, TV, magic, and the North Pole. He asks them what they want.  
  
They have already discussed this, they say, and already sent him a letter. He apologises; one of the reindeer was ill, and he hasn't had time to read all his post. They ask for the latest model of toy spaceship, with guns that really light up red and wings that fold out. They promise they'll share it. They're probably right.  
  
Father Christmas says he'll see what he can do, and sends them away with handfuls of neon sweets. The next child in line is the sulking boy, and from the look on his face, the sulking is here to stay.  
  
"You're not Father Christmas," he says.  
  
"Sure I am." Father Christmas smiles again. It's a very distinctive smile. "I'm the real one."  
  
"Prove it." He tries very hard not to look at all the presents, all the glitter and silver and gold.  
  
Something shimmers behind them. Father Christmas glances at it, just for a moment, but when the boy looks there's nothing there. Father Christmas waits patiently for his attention. "What do you want?" he says.  
  
The boy doesn't hesitate. It's no surprise that he was listening to the others. He wants a spaceship, like theirs - no, _just_ like theirs - no, _exactly_ like theirs - all of his own.  
  
"But what do you _want_?" Father Christmas says.  
  
The spaceship. That spaceship. And, and... His voice tails off.  
  
"And?" Father Christmas says.  
  
The boy looks out at the other children, now obediently handing their sweets over to their father. He smiles.  
  


* * *

  
  
That night, something that probably isn't a reindeer (although it's possibly alive, and it's definitely flying,) appears soundlessly over an unremarkable suburban street.  
  


* * *

  
  
The noise is loud enough to hear over the boy's parents arguing over cooking times for the turkey. When they crowd around the window, neither of them notices the brand-new spaceship cradled in their son's arms. Even the boy himself is not looking - his whole attention is fixed, like theirs, on the spectacle outside.  
  
A whirlwind of fury in the shape of a little girl, hairband tugged loose and coat sleeve ripped, is currently trying to inflict as much damage as it can upon an equally angry boy. Hands pull hair and punch at stomachs; feet, in mud-splattered white socks and ruined patent leather shoes, kick at shins. They are screaming at each other. Their horrified parents are trying without much success, and without any attention, to drag them apart.  
  
"Daddy said it was under the tree!" The girl dodges a kick, succeeds in digging fingernails into the soft flesh of an inner arm. "If it's gone then _you stole it_!"  
  
"I never _saw_ it!" Her brother twists out of her grasp. " _You_ stole it so you could have it all for yourself, and I _hate_ you!"  
  
Inside, the boy's hands linger on the bright plastic finish of an extendable wing, but his eyes do not once leave the fight. A grin begins to spread over his face. His mother, who would never admit any guilty joy at seeing this herself, asks him what he's smiling at.  
  
"Father Christmas is _real_ ," he says.


End file.
